Manhattan
by Aaya123Woods
Summary: Sage Kipose. Prosecutor extraordinaire, single mother. A remarkable woman from any angle. Flash-forward six months after the epidemic, and Sage Kipose is living in a tree with a relatively good life. When a little girl stumbles into Sage's park, Sage is unprepared for the absolute hurricane that sweeps into her new life, frustrating her, confusing her, and healing her. Set in NYC.


**As a New Yorker, I believe that NYC is the center of the world. So here is what I think surviving in a city of 8 million people would be like. How many you think would be zombified? 7 million? 7 million and a half? Who the hell knows?**

* * *

My name is Sage, and I'm a survivor.

I guess I always have been. I sort of protected my twin sister, though when we hit high school, she slid right into the popular crowd, so I lost my sister long before she tried to eat me. I got pregnant when I was nineteen, and then tried to beat up the kid who did it. And then, with a baby, I got through college and law school.

Isn't it just a slap in the face when the people to survive apocalypse are the lawyers?

Right at the beginning of the epidemic, my nine-year-old son, Sam, sprained his wrist falling off of his bed. I took him to the ER.

You want to know the kicker?

There were deadies in the hospital. One scratched Sam. (This was when the deadies were still few and far between, and if you got scratched or bitten, it took days to die.) And then when he died, the cause of death was meningitis.

I don't remember the kind. All I know is that my baby boy had a headache one day and died of fucking meningitis the next, while dead people were eating the live ones.

It had gotten worse since then.

Right now, I'm hiding out in Central Park. I'm up a tree. As usual, there is a parade of deadies staggering steadily by. In a city with so many people in it, and even more refugees during the epidemic, there were almost ten million people before the broadcasts stopped. There's a swarm of them passing through almost every day. My tree hasn't fallen down, but only because it's probably one of the thickest ones in the park.

I'm sharpening a knife with a rock. I'm going to need more supplies soon. The deadies have almost cleared the park of any animals but for birds.

When the last of the group finally stumbles away, I climb down the tree quickly and silently. In the six months since the epidemic, I'm in better shape than any twenty-nine-year-old woman could dream of before. One good thing, I suppose.

I check the immediate area for deadies, and then walk quickly toward the fences. Tied up there is one deadie, with no hands and no teeth. I untie it and station it in front of me, heading out into the semi-crowded streets of Manhattan. The deadies don't notice me, a curious fact that I'm grateful for.

I'm on the Upper East Side, scouting for anyplace that looks like it has supplies. First, I check an apartment building.

The front door is hanging wide open, so I shut it and tie my deadie to the doorknob. It will ward off others until I come out.

I hitch my empty backpack higher on my shoulder and stop at the first apartment. I'm looking for anything, really, knives, food, guns.

Panties and tampons would be welcome.

I find a pack of croutons behind an empty cardboard box. I also find a messenger bag. Bags in this world are always useful, especially ones with long straps. I empty out the schoolbooks inside and check the two bedrooms for something. Nothing. It's all been stripped clean. But this is a tall building, and if I get just a small item of food or one weapon from each apartment, I'll be set for weeks.

In one, I discover a roomful of books. It seemed that somebody had been renting a two-bedroom and converted one bedroom into a library. Smiling, I fill the messenger bag with mostly Agatha Christie and Stephen King. I see the spine of another and almost laugh out loud. It's a fairly thick book entitled _How to Survive a Zombie Apocalypse._

Zombies. I realize that I haven't even thought the word since the epidemic, mainly because I associate it with bad movies and people who prepare for doomsday.

_What the hell_, I think. I pull the book down and stow it in the bag. I hear growling. I turn, whipping a knife out of my belt, and thrust the knife into the deadie's eye. I don't use guns.

When I finally finish, I take the three full bags plus the one I found and swing them onto my back. I climb down the stairs carefully, running into more than a few on the way down.

A bystander think I'm a complete idiot for hanging out in the trees when there's a very available apartment building across the street. Maybe a house I would consider, but the apartments are constricted, have only one escape route, and would get so hot in the summer. I just like living in the tree. The end of the world has given me a sense of freedom. No criminals to throw in jail, no uncomfortable pumps, no limit on the amount of sleep I get. I can do almost whatever I want now. Living in an apartment would remind me that sooner or later, somebody somewhere will figure this fucking mess out and restore civilization. Sometimes I think that I don't want civilization, because that would mean getting back to my same dragging life, with nothing that doesn't remind me of my Sammy.

Plus, I like camping.

I grab my deadie and walk briskly the few blocks back to Central Park. I tie up the deadie and hang my bags on a branch just above my head. I use the branches beside that one and pull myself up. I look around and smile, because now, this is home.

My tree is huge, strong, and sturdy. I've arranged blankets supported by thick branches into a sort of nest. Bags hang everywhere from higher branches. One is full of cans. One is full of berries, apples, and other food I've managed to forage. One has a gun, and is full of ammo. I never use any of that. Firing a gun nowadays is like screaming, _I'm here! I'm here! I'm just sitting here waiting for a deadie to take a big bite out of my stupid ass!_ Another bag is full of knives, my preferred weapon. Another with batteries. It goes on and on, each bag letting me keep some sense of organization. The best thing is, the only thing anybody would see from below a scrap of dirty white comforters, and probably pass it off as a trick of the light.

I smile and take out _And Then There Were None_. I read until the sun goes down, and then I close the book carefully. Tonight, I'm well-fed, supplied, hidden, and have no responsibilities. I could almost be happy. Almost.

* * *

_"Mom!" yelled Sam._

_I jerked awake, instantly alert. I run to Sam's room._

_"Are you okay?" I cried, running to him. Sam was sitting on the floor, small mouth puckered. He was cradling his arm delicately._

_"Mom, it hurts," he whimpered._

_"Baby, what happened?" I said softly, taking him into my arms. Sam yelped with pain when I pushed his wrist against me. I eyed the wrist nervously._

_"I-I _fell_," he said. He was obviously trying not to cry. "Off my bed," he said, pointing to his loft bed. "I stuck out my hands like that." Sam stuck out his uninjured hand. I touched his wrist lightly. It was a bit swollen and warm, and I could see bruises blooming._

_"Didn't I say to stay away from the ladder at night?" I admonished, though I was far more worried than angry._

_"Sammy, we're going to take a trip, okay?" I said. I gathered him into my arms and pulled on our coats. I left the apartment, glad of the ever-present light. I'd heard some strange stories on the news, and I didn't want to take chances._

_I found an empty taxi quickly. I guessed everyone else had heard the odd stories, too._

_"Mount Sinai Hospital," I directed the cabbie. I turned my attention back to Sam._

_"We're going to be there soon, okay, honey?" I said, settling Sam against me._

_"M'kay," he said._

_I couldn't be there fast enough. I didn't want to see Sam in pain any longer than I had to._

_When we got to the hospital, I picked up Sam and carried him inside. I pushed the doors open and was greeted by an emergency room in complete chaos._

_"Um- um, could somebody come help me?" I asked. My voice was weak and uncertain. I wasn't used to that. In the courtroom, I had the stage, all the time. There was order, and my voice was loud among the organized grids._

_But in a room where people were screaming, crying, bustling, shouting, running, hurting- I was confused, staggered, instincts slowed._

_A young doctor with dark hair and bags under her eyes ran to me. She looked frazzled and tired._

_"Lady, is your son seriously hurt?" she asked, far beyond manners._

_"Uh- no, no, I don't think so," I said._

_"Okay, take him to an urgent care center, we have a pressing situation here," the woman said, running away again. And then I found my lawyer voice again._

_"Lady, give my son some care!" I said, voice raised but calm. A nurse glanced over at me, one eyebrow raised. She rolled her eyes and beckoned me over._

_"What happened to the kid?" she asked brusquely._

_"He fell. Hurt his wrist," I said._

_"Radiology. Second floor." The nurse pointed to the elevator. "Ask for Simmons."_

_"Thank you." I hurried toward the elevator, feeling an odd sort of triumph._

_When the hospital had finally gotten Sam under an X-ray, I slumped in the chair outside the room._

_"Rough night?" I turned and saw a woman sitting in a chair down the hall, smiling at me._

_"In a sense. Is the emergency room always this crowded?" I asked, still wearing my court voice._

_"It's a curious thing. In the past month or so, the ER's been full of people with bites."_

* * *

I wake up to the sun glaring in my face.

I stretch, yawning. My teeth feel disgusting. I could swear that there's mold growing on them. I remind myself to get a toothbrush and toothpaste. Oh, the luxuries of a nearby pond.

I decide to play a game.

I grab one of my many empty bags and a couple of knives, and check the surrounding area to make sure there isn't a swarm coming. I drop from the tree and search for rocks about the size of my fist. I'm going to work on my aim. After I've collected enough rocks, I position myself on a high branch, high enough so that I can see the entire park and I don't have to peer through leaves. As I'd suspected, there's a swarm of deadies about a mile away. I smile to myself and settle with a rock in hand, waiting.

When I hear the first growls, I stretch my stiff muscles and aim carefully. I only have so many rocks. But before I throw the first rock, I hear light, footsteps.

Definitely not the footsteps of a deadie.

It's a person.

And what's more, it's a little girl.

She's running away from the deadies, but she has nowhere to go, and she clearly ran out of energy long ago. She has curly, dirty blonde hair, and clear, pale green eyes. She's one of the skinniest people I have ever seen.

The deadies are closing in on her.

And suddenly, I don't know why, I open my mouth and I begin to sing.

I know I could have yelled or fired my gun or something, but now that I'm singing, I don't particularly want to stop. I simply sing the first song that comes into my head. I realize after I begin belting it out that it was probably one of the worst songs I could've chosen.

But the end of the world has come and gone, so who the fuck is caring?

"I'm breaking in, I'm shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus! This is it, the apocalypse," I sing loudly. It's not singing, so much as yelling, but the deadies are drawing away from the little girl.

"I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones! Enough to make my systems blow!" I scream. The girl is trying to scramble up a tree. Deadies are still clawing at her ankles. I sing louder. "Welcome to the new age! To the new age!" The girl misses a branch and almost falls, her legs dangling. I quickly resume. "Welcome to the new age! To the new age!"

The girl has scrabbled her way up the tree. I fall silent, trying to forget that that stupid song was Sammy's favorite.


End file.
